


Bridging the Gap

by paranoid_fridge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (and then there is cake), (i suppose?), Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Schmoop, after The Hug, and a dash of humor, and eurus, and feelings, like those two actually have a conversation, mrs hudson - Freeform, really short cameos by, sap, with tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:31:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: Sherlock has never been good at friends or emotions. But when John starts crying in front of him, when that echo of Mary's voice reminds him that he is the only one who can save John, Sherlock tries. He draws John into his arms (that's what they do on telly) and then they continue from there.Aka John and Sherlock and what happened after the scene cut away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please beware of slight liberties taken with the original scene and a few swear words. The rest of this is schmoop. Angsty schmoop, but schmoop.

In the dim light of their (and isn't it curious how despite this situation, despite John having lived elsewhere for a while now, Sherlock still thinks of the place as ‘theirs’?) living room, the first tear that falls from John’s eyes catches the light and blinks like a small, falling star and something in Sherlock’s chest tightens.

And yes, these are emotions, and he's never been good at them, and he considered them weak. But now, here, he wishes he understood them just a little better. Just enough to help. Because really, logic and the studies he read speak of counselling, of support. But John already has a therapist, and Sherlock isn't sure if they can even be considered friends now.

Not that he was ever good at being friends.

A quiet, repressed son tears itself from John’s throat. He presses his hands to his face, a picture of misery, with his shoulders hunched from pain that has no physical cause.

Sherlock rises from his chair. He's not good at this, not sure if this is the thing to do. But it's what they do on the telly, it's what he's seen people do at airports. Yet as he crosses the room, he wonders.

After everything that happened - is that gap between them truly bridgeable?

“You are the only one who can,” Mary whispers firmly in the back of his mind.

Sherlock crosses the distance and opens his arms. John turns toward him as if there was never any doubt about it, folding forward until his head comes to rest just below Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s arms close around him, almost tentative and maybe he's holding his breath. Maybe his heart is beating just a bit faster.

Maybe for all his understanding of the chemistry behind emotions, experiencing them changes everything.

Another sob tears itself from John’s throat; and Sherlock feels tears soak through the fabric of his shirt. The logical part of his mind rambles about psychology, the chemical composition of tears, and so many other random and useless conclusions. Instead he gently slides his hand up John’s back and lets it rest in the nape of his neck.

And somehow it's different.

He touches people rather often - well, quite a number of them are dead already - but he looks at marks, skin, hairs, and everything else. It never feels like this. Certainly, he can conjecture that's it's been about three weeks since John last saw a hairdresser, and can deduct what detergent he uses by the smell of his sweater.

But the warmth that fills his own chest has no such logical origin and the feeling no clear name.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John says, quietly. His face hidden, though his shoulders shake a little less. “I'm sorry. You didn't kill her, I know that. I always knew that.”

“It's alright,” Sherlock soothes. Because he may not have shot Mary, but she still died to save him. She wouldn't have been there if not for him.

So despite knowing it's not logical - he hasn't been able to kill that lingering kernel of guilt.

“No, it's not!” John bursts out. Without breaking the embrace he leans back to look up at Sherlock, eyes red-rimmed and still filled with tears, but also anger. “Not at all! I treated you like shit, and I knew! I knew you weren't at fault and I stood by and watched you self-destruct!”

His voice hitches, but when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, John cuts him off. “No, that's what it was! I saw you were killing yourself and I refused to help. I ignored you when I knew -” He shakes his head, almost dislodging Sherlock’s hand, but he's not letting John walk away from him now.

Not when the memory of a lonely man’s silhouette walking down a London street all alone rises unbidden.

“If it hadn't been for the tape, I wouldn't have even gone back to the hospital. Do you understand, Sherlock?” John looks at him, and Sherlock realizes that the anger he saw in his eyes earlier is directed at himself. “That monster would have killed you!”

Sherlock swallows. The encounter with Smith shook him - and in a very different way from prior encounters with death. When Mary shot him, he was surprised. When the cabbie threatened him he didn’t care - that now feels like a memory from a different life.

But when, just for a moment, he started to doubt that his plan would work, that John would come - something in his chest hurt in a way he hadn't anticipated at all.

“I had contingency plans,” Sherlock mutters, but that draws a chocked, upset noise from John.

“Those shouldn't have been needed in first place. You shouldn't have been in that hospital in first place!” John yells, only to have a fresh wave of tears stop him from saying more.

Sherlock swallows, searches for the right words. “It was part of the plan. It was necessary.”

“Fuck necessary!” John shouts and the hands that have found their way around Sherlock’s body abruptly tighten their grip. “And what plan was that necessary for? Stopping the monster? No, Sherlock, I know you. You probably had fifty other plans of stopping him, none of which would have required you putting yourself into danger. Or getting …” His voice drops off.

“73,” Sherlock replies numbly, lips moving on their own.

John snorts. “See.” He makes to disentangle himself, but Sherlock instinctively doesn't let go - if he lets go now, he senses, he will lose John forever.

“Sherlock,” John says with a note of protest. “I, really … I put you into that hospital in first place. I just… at that moment, I lost it. I should have…”

Sherlock shakes his head stubbornly and holds on. “It was my plan all along.”

A hoarse, humorless laugh escapes from John’s throat and Sherlock feels like cringing. “What kind of bloody plan is that? Sherlock, that entire thing - picking a fight with a serial killer, going on drugs - all that for a plan?”

He doesn't say “for me?” but Sherlock hears it anyway. “Of course,” he responds and puts every shred of honesty he possess into those words, and tugs John a little closer, wishing he had the words to melt that hurt he feels radiating from his friend. “You saw Mary’s video. And she’s right, you know. She always was.”

John flinches at her name, shoulders slumping further. He audibly forces himself to take a deep breath, fights ferociously against breaking down. “I'm not worth that,” he half-sobs. “Really, Sherlock. You, Mary. You're wrong. I'm not worth all that.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “But you are.”

“No,” John protests and Sherlock feels helpless. He knows about imaginary convictions, but confronted with one, he does not know how to solve it. There is quick conclusion that can help him here; no answer to be found in logic.

“You're wrong, you and Mary both,” John continues and the pain in his voice makes Sherlock shudder. “You've got your brilliant mind, and you could be a fantastic scientist or whatever you'd wish to be. Mary, too - but I'm a failure as a doctor, as a husband, and as a friend.”

Sherlock tightens his grip - just a little, just enough to let John feel it. “But you are possible the only person in the world - or at least the only person I met, and I do believe Mary would tell you the same - who ever truly cared. For me and for Mary.”

John huffs quietly. “What about your brother?”

“Mycroft? John, you've met him. I spent the first five years of my life convinced he was a reptile in human disguise, and if I didn't know he was currently sleeping with Lady Smallwood, I’d still have my doubts,” Sherlock returns and it does draw a hoarse, unwilling burst of laughter from John. It makes him feel unexpectedly good.

“Lady Smallwood?” he echoes.

“You could also say the Swedish government is currently fucking the Canadian government,” Sherlock adds, because he wants John to laugh more. Now more than ever.

Indeed, the suggestion does draw another tired smile from John, and when he wipes at his eyes and looks at Sherlock, the anger and pain have receded. He still looks exhausted, but after everything that happened that is to be expected. Sherlock still doesn't like it.

“Really, Sherlock,” John shakes his head. “Joking aside, I'm certain other people have and do still care for you.”

“I'm a sociopath. We're hard to love,” Sherlock half-quips. And then he does gather his courage. “And among those who may have that ability, there is only one of you, John. Please, never underestimate just how much you mean to me. To Mary.”

John’s eyes widen in surprise. That's worth the odd quivering in his own chest, Sherlock thinks. He’s not good at this, but for John he will try.

“You have … I don’t think you quite understand what you mean to me, John,” Sherlock confesses quietly, thinking of the man he used to be. Of how having John at his side helped him.

After a moment, John offers him a slow, quiet smile. “Alright. But in return, promise to never ever engage on such a reckless, stupid, suicidal, idiotic, preposterous plan again. Not for me. Not for anyone else. Nobody is worth that much.”

Sherlock is tempted to disagree.

But John looks at him with those pain-filled eyes again, and repeats: “Promise me.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says and somehow finds a weight lifting in his own chest. “I won't.”

John's lips quirk a little. Sherlock thinks that he's not good with vows and promises - and John knows that. And he's still willing to take Sherlock’s word, still willing to trust him.

It feels incredible.

“Good,” John says, smiling. “And maybe we could try the communication thing. I got a lot of books with advice on Rosie. _Communicating with toddlers for Dummies_ and things like that - there might be something in there for us as well.”

“Are you calling us two big babies?” Sherlock asks and incredulous laughter bubbles in his chest.

“Well,” John drawls, his tone lighter than it has been since Mary died. “There might be certain parallels…”

Sherlock can't help the small giggle from bursting out. Because this tone means John is okay with him, means that things between them are finally slipping into balance again. The things that happened, the faked death, Mary, they will always linger, will never vanish.

But now they do have a future again.

And Sherlock instinctively draws John against his chest, close enough to feel the warmth of his body against his own, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock again. This time, though, despite red-rimmed eyes, they are laughing.

“Oh boys, how nice to see you’ve made up,” Mrs. Hudson announces from the doorway.

Both men flinch and don’t quite leap apart, but rather hurriedly disentangle themselves. Sherlock tugs his shirtsleeves back into place. John fiddles with his sweater.

Mrs. Hudson is deeply unimpressed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I did bring cake; it’s your birthday, after all, Sherlock.” She bustles into the room, and set down what is a deliciously looking cheesecake.

“Thank you,” John says politely, and Sherlock echoes him.

“Well then,” she sighs looking between them. Then she shakes her head. “I’ll call Molly and tell her to come later.”

“That won’t be - “ John starts.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. He casts a sideways glance to John that might be considered hesitant if that word fit together with Sherlock Holmes. According to John’s look of surprise, it doesn’t.

“Alright,” John agrees.

“We’ll pick up Rosie,” Sherlock announces. “Then we’ll get back and have cake. Tell Molly she can come for that, too.”

“Oh how nice!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims and turns to go back downstairs and make the call. Sherlock feels unusually good - as if the world looked brighter despite the lighting in the flat not having changed. But maybe that’s what chemical formulas and qualitative descriptions fail to convey - just how different actually feeling the emotions is. 

Next to him John still smiles wryly, and Sherlock finds himself looking forward to the future.

  _Fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> *insert screaming* The lassssst episodeeeee. Sooooooonnnnnn! ARGHHHH! *more screaming*
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this exploration. Dearest Bloubell threw a few things at me, including cake, angst, and confessions. Since those two dorks talk about everything except their feelings, the confessing happened in a very roundabout way (... which is rather how I read the show...). 
> 
> ANYWAY, I hope you had fun.
> 
> And now it's back to screaming until sunday ~


End file.
